


Monkey Suit

by saekokato



Series: First Line Meme [3]
Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:01:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekokato/pseuds/saekokato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Bob was not the Bryar cousin that got the looking-hot-in-formal-wear genes. That was Randall, his mother’s sister’s son.</i>  Hawaii Five-O AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monkey Suit

**Author's Note:**

> First Line Meme Ficlet #3: _"I feel like an idiot."_ From [ Private Show](http://mahoni.livejournal.com/628693.html).

“I feel like an idiot.” Bob fiddles with his button down some more, buttoning the three buttons he’d just unbuttoned all the way back up. The closed collar around his throat gave him the vague impression of being choked, so he unbuttoned one more button. Then another. He really wishes he could wear a hoodie – Wentz had even designed a few that looked like tuxedo jackets, complete with his signature batheart-thing patterned over the hood lining – but no, he wasn’t allowed. Stupid fucking strict dress events. Stupid fucking Schechter making him go undercover to yet another stupid strict dress event.

He buttons the shirt up again.

“You need to chill out, dude,” Gabe says cheerfully. He’s across the war room, his feet up on the state of the art computer table – it had a fancy name but Bob couldn’t be bothered to remember it – still in his normal jeans, atrocious neon patterned aloha shirt, and clashing neon tennis shoes. Bob’s certain the guy would stand out on the Strip. During a parade. With Magnum PI impersonators. “All that futzing can’t be good for your heart.”

“You know I hate agreeing with him, Bryar,” Vicky says. She comes up to Bob and slaps his hands away from his collar. She fiddles with the buttons for a couple seconds before stepping away again. She’d left the top three buttons free. “Stop fiddling. You look fine.”

“I look like a waiter,” Bob protests. Because he does. He always does. He has four – not one or two or three, but _four_ \- separate occasions where him wearing this shit has followed with several very rich, very drunk men and women giving him their drink orders. Bob was not the Bryar cousin that got the looking-hot-in-formal-wear genes. That was Randall, his mother’s sister’s son.

“Yeah, you do,” Brian agrees as he strolls into the room. Schechter, the tiny bastard, looks like fucking Bond in his dark suit and crisp white shirt. Bob glares at him as he gives Bob a very thorough once over. “If you mean one that had just escaped a very thorough mauling in the coat closet. Was it the pretty, pretty, barely legal princess this time, Bryar? Or the older than your mother cougar?”

“I hate you all,” Bob says. He doubts any of them actually hear him over Gabe and his loudass laughter, but he’s sure they all catch the gist of it from his glare. “Hate.”

“Relax, Bryar, I’ll protect your virtue,” Brian says. He winks at Bob before turning his attention to the computer table and the files Gabe had loaded onto it. A few quick taps and a flick of his wrist later, and there are four pictures up on the hanging screens. “These are the guys that we need to bug. Bob and I will take Marco, Iona, and Jacobson. Vicky will handle Hale. We have the van?”

“Already loaded and waiting, boss,” Gabe says. He swings his feet off the table as he stands up, reaching over Brian’s shoulder to drag another file to the third of the hanging screens.

The file is a blueprint of estate the party they’re crashing is being held at, divided into three separate zones by color. It’s a huge two story building – Bob’s apartment could fit inside about a hundred times over with room to spare – with about a full acre of open grounds surrounding it. Apparently the illegal arms trade paid very, very well.

“That’s the layout for the party. Everything in blue is open to the guests. Green is for party workers, and red is everything that’s off-limits. Iona stores everything we’re looking for in his office, which, of course, is dead center in the red zone.”

“Of course,” Vicky mutters. She’s going under as a waitress again, so she’ll have more access than either Bob or Brian, unless Bob and Brian get lucky enough to catch Marco’s or Iona’s interest. All four of them are really hoping that Bob and Brian get lucky.

Well, mostly. Vicky is more than capable of tearing Hale – or, hell, anyone – to shreds, but if it happens Bob wants a front row seat. Or video, at the very least.

“Hey, you’ll be on comms, at the very least, all night, cuz,” Gabe says. He winks at her when she turns from studying the blueprint to glare at him.

“Can you two stop doing whatever it is that you’re currently doing, and focus on the case here?” Bob asks after a minute. He fiddles with his shirt sleeves, trying to make sure both of them are sticking out an equal distance from both jacket sleeves. “I would like to get out of this monkey suit sometime tonight.”

They both roll their eyes at him, but refocus on the screens. Brian talks them through the plan one last time – because having already done it six times before the two of them changed wasn’t enough of an overkill – and then Vicky and Gabe head out. Vicky to get changed and head out to do the pre-party work, and Gabe to do something Gabe-like. Bob doesn’t want nor does he need to know.

Bob just fiddles with his shirt some more while Brian laughs at him. Discreetly, of course, because Bob has no problems shooting the ass. He’d call to check up on Pear, but he’d already done that after she’d gotten home for school, and the last thing he needs is to listen to Ashlee bitch him out for interrupting whatever it is that he’d end up interrupting. Again. God forbid he try to take an interest in his daughter’s life.

“Hey, everything okay with Pear?” Brian asks. Bob should have known better than to think about the latest in the long series of fights with Ashlee when Brian was in his on-the-case mindset. For someone that could be so ridiculously oblivious about normal human interaction – among other things not limited to proper police procedure – Brian had an uncanny knack for picking up on the things Bob would prefer to be left very much alone. “Ashlee still upset about the game?”

Bob is certain that the shoot out at the football game would be forever held over his head. It didn’t matter that the only thing Bob, or anyone on his team, had to do with it was shutting it down, Ashlee is going to blame it’s very existence on Bob. Bob knows that life isn’t fair, had known it long before Ashlee took away any chance of Bob spending more than a few hours a week with his little girl, but the times the lesson came back to kick him in the ass were a complete bitch.

“Right, stupid question,” Brian says when Bob doesn’t answer him. He comes up to Bob and slaps his hands away from his shirt. “Sometimes you remind me of a three year-old. Seriously, Bryar.”

Bob raises his eyebrows and doesn’t bother trying to push Brian away. It’d undoubtedly be a futile gesture anyway. “Just how many three year-olds do you know, Schechter?”

“Enough to know when you’re acting like one,” Brian says. He finishes tugging Bob’s shirt back into place, and he brushes his hands along Bob’s shoulders and arms before he takes a step back. “You look exactly like you’re supposed to, which is a respectable businessman for some rather unsavory and unrespectable underworld businessmen. Stop worrying about it.”

“Please, Schechter, tell me how you really feel,” Bob says dryly. He shoves his hands into his pants pockets when they try going to his collar again. Judging by his smirk, Brian hadn’t missed the gesture either.

“You couldn’t handle it,” Brian says. He reaches up and ruffles Bob’s hair, before turning on his heels and walking away before Bob could get his hands out of his pockets to throttle him. He’s halfway to the door before he calls back, “Hurry up, Bryar! We wouldn’t want Vicky to have all the fun.”

Bob shakes his head, but takes his time making sure nothing is running on the table that shouldn’t be while their gone. Brian may be a crazy ass SEAL, but he isn’t stupid enough to head off to an undercover op without his partner.

Okay, yeah, Bob doesn’t believe that either. Which is why he has the car keys in his pocket.

When he'd finished screwing around with the computer, he sighed and looked at his reflection in one of the dark screens. He still thought he looked like a waiter, but fuck it. He reached up and unbuttoned a third button, then nodded at himself. If he was going to do this, then he might as well go all out.

With one last look over the war room, Bob turned on his heel, ready as he ever would be for yet another exciting night as one fourth of Hawaii's elite task force.

And, if he was very lucky, tonight would end with ass-kicking instead of a hospital visit.


End file.
